


Breath Control

by chillydeer



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, First Time, Hydration is important, Kink Meme, Post-Time Skip, Vaginal Fingering, singing lessons, so is breathing, what's a little vocal instruction between friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydeer/pseuds/chillydeer
Summary: She can’t believe Ingrid’s finally agreed to this. Ingrid, who brought Dorothea to this room, alone, and is smiling at her with a nervous expectation that’s doing funny things to Dorothea’s chest.All right, they’re only here for some one-on-one singing lessons, but a woman can dream.(Dorothea's private lessons with Ingrid get a little hands-on.)
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85
Collections: FE3H Kinkmeme Light





	Breath Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FE3H Kinkmeme Light. Special thanks to [ohwines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohwines/pseuds/ohwines) for her input & for reading through this!!  
> Original Prompt: Dorothea tries to teach Ingrid to sing. It gets frisky and Dorothea tells her something to the effect of "I can make you really sing." Dorothea wants to hear Ingrid's sweet voice singing in pleasure!
> 
> I thought this prompt was adorable and decided to take it for a spin.  
> Hope you enjoy, anon!!

“First things first, you need to relax."

They’re in Ingrid’s old room. Ingrid stands facing the window while Dorothea is behind her to one side, trying to take her own advice and stifle her excitement. She can’t believe Ingrid’s finally agreed to this. Ingrid, who brought Dorothea to this room, alone, and is smiling at her with a nervous expectation that’s doing funny things to Dorothea’s chest.

All right, they’re only here for some one-on-one singing lessons, but a woman can dream.

“You can’t have good tone without good breathing, and you can’t have good breathing when you’re tense,” Dorothea says. “Now that we’ve got all that heavy armor off of you, let’s start with some deep breaths.”  
  
She lays a hand on Ingrid’s back, feeling her warm, sloping shoulder blades under the pale green tunic. Ingrid nods, glancing over her shoulder before closing her eyes and inhaling slowly, breathing out in a _whoosh_ and letting her shoulders drop in the process. She does this a few more times before Dorothea intervenes.

“Your posture’s not bad,” she laughs. “Did your tutors tie a broomstick to your back or something?”

Ingrid shakes her head. “Not quite. But I was always expected to stand like a lady, you’re right. I’m….” she hesitates, the corner of her mouth lifting in a bashful smile, and it floods Dorothea’s heart with fondness. “I’m glad something useful can come of it besides etiquette training.”

Dorothea beams. “Of course. Singing is extremely useful. And very healthy, to boot.”

She moves around to Ingrid’s front and places her hands on both shoulders. “But even with your great posture, you’re not utilizing it properly. I can show you, do you mind?” 

“Not at all. I’m all yours.” 

Ingrid’s face is so open and trusting, a portrait of pure earnest beauty that no stage makeup can outshine. Dorothea wants to dive headfirst into that openness so badly, to tear away all her own shields and be as fearless and beautiful as this. To give someone else her whole self uninhibited. 

Normally basic vocal instruction needn’t be so hands-on, but Dorothea’s never been great with words. “Take your hand like this,” she says, stepping closer and aligning Ingrid’s fingertips right beneath her sternum. “You should feel your chest expand outward from here.”

Dorothea watches Ingrid breathe deeply again, eyes closed in concentration. She’s too tense. And she’s still moving her shoulders far too much. 

“Keep still up here.” Dorothea pats Ingrid’s shoulder where her left hand continues to rest. Her right, atop Ingrid’s, hovers so close to the lowest button of the tunic, and well, she can’t help if her eyes drift upward and linger on the slight gap where the shirt stretches over her bust. Her own breathing speeds up for a moment.

“You’re so tight. Can you loosen up for me?” 

She doesn’t mean to quiet her voice so much, but with the proximity….Dorothea keeps her tone sweet, non-threatening. _Control, Thea._

Ingrid swallows and nods, and Dorothea’s eyes are glued to the motion. Her breath is warm on Dorothea’s neck, and when she looks at Ingrid’s face, Dorothea has to resist the urge to stare at the pale freckles dusting her nose.

It’s a struggle, teaching like this, but one she will endure with dignity and poise. For Ingrid’s sake.

Ingrid peeks her eyes open. “How’s this?” 

“Better.” Dorothea smiles again. She decides to be a little daring. “You can afford to take in more air, though. Try feeling it on me this time.” 

And Dorothea moves Ingrid’s arms almost like an embrace around her, guiding one hand to her sternum like she had with Ingrid’s, and the other at her back to mirror it. A Dorothea-Ingrid sandwich. 

“Most of the movement comes forward with the chest, but you’ll feel me expand backward too. A little lift of the shoulders is fine, but overall we want to concentrate on feeling the ribcage rise outward, and the muscle below it pulling down.”

Dorothea inhales deeply and exhales a long, slow breath, glancing at Ingrid through her eyelashes. With each repetition, she brings Ingrid’s hand a millimeter closer to her breasts, just grazing the underside through the ruffles of her dress. Ingrid resolutely avoids looking at her, but there is a faint pink to her cheeks now. Luckily the deep breaths help Dorothea keep her heart rate down, otherwise she’d be in trouble.

“Feel it?”  
  
“Yes, I think so.” 

“Good. Let’s see you do a few more, and then we’ll try something else.”  
  
Ingrid seems to get the hang of it this time. Dorothea doesn’t know if she should be disappointed or pleased. Then again, she can’t push things too far too fast, otherwise Ingrid will put her guard up and run away like she had when they were students. 

“There you go, that’s it,” she says in a low hum. “Nice and easy.”

“I appreciate your guidance, Dorothea. I’ve never focused on breathing quite like this,” Ingrid replies.

Dorothea pokes her nose. “No time like the present. Ready for the next level?”

Ingrid nods. “All right, if you’re sure.”

Dorothea is sure of a lot of things, none of them being how she wound up here, with Ingrid like putty in her hands, when she’d always been so skittish before. The balance between them is wavering, held on only by the determination on Ingrid’s face, in the set of her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says. “I want you to apply the breathing technique, and see how long you can extend your exhale. Just blow out a stream of air for as long as possible, keeping your shoulders level.” Dorothea lays a hand on Ingrid’s stomach, careful to remain gentle and instructive. “Feel the muscle here contract inward, and keep your chest expanded. Don’t let it collapse.”

After a few moments to find her concentration, Ingrid takes another deep breath, purses her lips, and blows out one forceful gust of air lasting five seconds. The intensely focused look on her face by the end of it leaves Dorothea giggling. 

Ingrid frowns. “This is certainly unusual training.” 

Dorothea’s giggle becomes a laugh. “Here, I’ll do it with you. One, two, three...”

Still facing Ingrid, she relaxes her chest, allowing air to fill her lungs, and then directs her stream of air right into Ingrid’s face. 

Ingrid blinks a few times before quirking an eyebrow. “Oh, if _that’s_ how it’s done…”

She sucks in another breath and blows out even harder, aiming for Dorothea’s face, but Dorothea leans out of the way, laughing. Her hand is still bracing Ingrid’s stomach; she hadn’t noticed, and now with Ingrid closer, she slips the hand along the side to her hip instead. Blows another soft puff of air at the stray wisps of hair framing Ingrid’s forehead, and she’s so close—Ingrid’s staring at her mouth like it’s an irritating rival to overcome. 

The toll of the dinner bell interrupts them.

“Oh!” says Ingrid, springing back. “I hadn’t realized how late it was getting.”

Heat rushes to Dorothea’s face, and she turns away to avoid showing it; she sees the jug of water on the windowsill and pours a glass, using the moment to regain her composure. “No, it’s my fault. I should have remembered dinner was so soon.”

When she hands the glass to Ingrid, Dorothea’s pleasant, confident smile is back in place. Ingrid accepts the water eagerly. Unlike before, Dorothea does _not_ look at the smooth line of her throat while she drinks.

“Dorothea, I—” 

“You don’t have to say anything, Ingrid,” Dorothea cuts her off. Smiles as she takes back the glass. “It’s no trouble at all. What’s a little instruction between friends?”

Ingrid tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Right. I’ll see you later then.”

“I look forward to it,” says Dorothea.

~ 

The next time they meet, in Dorothea’s room, Dorothea thinks she’s ready. The room is tidy and smells of lavender, thanks to the sprigs in the vase on the desk. She’s cleared as much floor space as possible to move around. Bed’s completely made. Water already poured out for each of them.

But then Ingrid arrives. She’s wearing a pale blue, short-sleeved tunic, looser, with a thin belt cinched at the waist. No buttons, but an open neckline. Instead of the warm woolen tights she wears under her battle armor, she’s in leggings that mold to her figure perfectly. Good for movement, for training in warm weather, she would probably say. She’s always so practical.

Ingrid bends over to remove her boots, and Dorothea’s smile freezes on her face for a moment. She stares, eyeing the thin fabric that shows every muscled curve of her calves, her thighs, her _ass,_ tapering into a slender but strong waist.

She feels bricks begin to fall, one by one, from the wall of her resolve. Suddenly her own dress is far too hot. _Singing, she’s here for singing._

Dorothea takes Ingrid through some warmups: breathing exercises like before, then some of the scales they used to run in choir practice. Ingrid looks down as she sings, her voice soft and sweet, and Goddess, if her shyness isn’t the most adorable thing. 

“You really do have a lovely tone,” Dorothea says. “So light and carefree. I shouldn’t be surprised coming from a flyer like yourself. Always up in the air.”

Ingrid looks up, genuinely pleased. “I’m sure it’s nothing compared to real singers. To yours,” she adds. 

“My dear, you _are_ a real singer! Everyone has to start somewhere. That’s why we’re here.” Dorothea clears her throat and stands taller, imperious but for her smiling eyes. “Now, stop flattering me and show me how you’ve improved from our first lesson.”

“Well, I have practiced my extended breathing.”

“Let’s see it then.”

Ingrid straightens. She holds both hands to her stomach, closes her eyes, and breathes in. Opens them as she exhales through the smallest opening of her lips. The airstream quivers only for a moment, but Dorothea is impressed at how long she lasts. 

“My, my, look at that stamina,” she says, brows raised. 

With a gasp, Ingrid sucks in a breath and sighs in relief, drooping her shoulders. “I can’t believe you do this all the time.”

“Ha, soon you’ll be breathing circles around me, I’m sure. Okay, next step: do the same while holding out a note instead of just air. Like this.”

Dorothea inhales. Perhaps she sticks her chest out more than is necessary, but no one is here to correct her form. Mirroring Ingrid’s earlier pose, she sings a clear “La!” for as long as she can. She peeks sideways at Ingrid, who quickly averts her gaze from where it trailed along Dorothea’s torso. 

“Your turn!” she trills when finished. Ingrid looks sheepish.

“I don’t know if I can manage that quite so nicely.”

“Oh, Ingrid. You won’t know until you try.” In a moment of spontaneity, she grabs both of Ingrid’s hands in hers. “Don’t be so nervous, it’s only me.”

There’s a flash of fear, or is it self-defense, in Ingrid’s eyes. Has she pushed too far? But no, it’s gone now, Ingrid is smiling that sweet, shy smile.

She drops her hands and moves to fetch the water on the desk. “Here, time for a break.” Hands one to Ingrid, who takes daintier sips this time. “Hydration is key, you know,” she continues. Ingrid drinks deeper. A drop of water escapes down the side of her chin and lands on her collarbone. _Shit, she’s beautiful._ “We never want to be too...dry.”

Ingrid looks up, and Dorothea quickly chugs her water, lest her own mouth go dry the way her thoughts have been running. 

They resume their exercise. Ingrid’s attempts to match Dorothea are valiant but unsuccessful, despite Dorothea’s repeated demonstrations and exhortations for Ingrid to _relax already._ Her pitch oscillates as she struggles to keep the air steady, and at one point when Dorothea gives her an encouraging smile, Ingrid nearly chokes. Dorothea’s there in an instant, rubbing Ingrid’s back as she coughs a few times. Her face is pink from the exertion, going even pinker as she glances away from the neckline of Dorothea’s admittedly very low cut dress.

This is...so very different from those times before the war, when Dorothea found herself spending free hours in Ingrid’s room while she brushed out her hair after training—she gave up on the makeup and clothes after the ball fiasco—or calming her with a nice dinner after yet another unpleasant letter from her father. Serious, focused, polite Ingrid...dear, sweet, self-sacrificing _Ingrid_ , finally learning to be comfortable around her, to rely on her on and off the battlefield.

(Irrelevant to mention Dorothea’s own reliance on Ingrid, how safe she feels around a friend she doesn’t need to impress.) 

She wants Ingrid to feel safe here too, and yet...the way Ingrid won’t quite meet her eyes at times, that rosebud blush on her cheeks—the thrill of it has Dorothea reeling, grasping at dangerous ideas. 

“All right,” she says, taking some calming breaths of her own. “All right. Let’s move on for now. I have a better plan.”

Dorothea hops onto the bed, kneeling and tucking her feet underneath her. She pats the edge of the bed in front of her. “Come sit.”

Ingrid sits with her back to Dorothea. “Like this?”

“Yes.” She begins to massage Ingrid’s shoulders, gently. “We’re going to get you to relax a bit more, distract you from those nerves.”

“I’m not nervous,” Ingrid insists, leaning into the touch.

Dorothea smirks out of sight. “Could have fooled me. All right, let’s try doing some warmups again, and I’ll just be soothing you like this.”

Rubbing small circles on Ingrid’s shoulder blades with her thumbs, Dorothea starts singing an easy arpeggio, slowing as Ingrid joins in. Her voice really is lovely; there’s something so nice about how demure Ingrid sings compared to her shouts on the battlefield. Dorothea wonders how she would sound crying out in a very different way. Her breath catches at the thought. 

Ingrid continues up the scale. Her posture is looser now that she’s not facing Dorothea. 

“That’s it, keep relaxing, but don’t lose your form.”

She braces a hand at the center of Ingrid’s back while straightening one shoulder. 

“Thank you, Dorothea,” says Ingrid, finishing the exercise. “This is...nice. What should I do next, should I—”

Dorothea immediately launches into another warmup with some nonsense lyrics about mice and mumbling. Ingrid sings along again, a little out of tune (they’ll work on that later). Regardless, the mumbling mice make music through Ingrid’s singing, and Dorothea sneaks one hand low along Ingrid’s hip, then around to her stomach. She feels her abs tighten—and for a second, Ingrid almost resembles a mouse herself with a high breathy squeak—but she settles again as Dorothea rubs lightly up and down the soft weave of her tunic.

“Keep going, you’re doing great. Nice and calm.” Unlike Dorothea, whose pulse only accelerates. How can it not, when Ingrid is accepting her touch, her whole body telegraphing its reactions! 

With Dorothea’s knees already parted to accommodate Ingrid, she bunches up her skirt to spread them even wider and scoot closer. There’s a thin line of space between them, all that tethers Dorothea to her self-control. Her left hand massages the sliver of Ingrid’s exposed neck below her hair, and her right continues up and down her hip, sliding over the top of her thigh.

Ingrid keeps singing, but her pace falters with each stroke. Her breaths aren’t as slow and even any longer.

“Controlled breathing, remember. Don’t rush the notes.” 

“Right.” Ingrid nods, tries to look over her shoulder, and of course Dorothea’s eyes zoom in to her parted lips. 

The next exercise Ingrid starts on her own, having the sequence from memory. Dorothea moves her hands to Ingrid’s sides, grazing in long, slow strokes over her arms and then the sides of her torso. Amid all the movement, her breasts brush against Ingrid’s back. Dorothea bites her lip and feels her nipples tingle at the contact, even through the dress.

“Ahhhh,” Ingrid sings. “Ah, _ah._ ” 

Dorothea smiles at the strain in her voice, the breath that escapes in a fluttery gasp. A common occurrence when one runs out of steam at the end of a phrase. (Though she really hopes the reason this time is less common.)

“Don’t be afraid to use more air,” she instructs. Her mouth is so close to Ingrid’s neck, she can see the shiver that runs across her skin. “You’ll need more energy to get a healthy sustain.”

Ingrid tries again, louder, and makes it through the end of the phrase in one breath. As a teacher, Dorothea is genuinely pleased.

“Oh, Ingrid, that was perfect!” With her weight on Ingrid’s shoulders for balance, she curves around so Ingrid can see her approval. 

“Not at all, but I thank you,” says Ingrid. “Though I did not realize how loud these rooms could echo. Are you sure we aren’t disturbing anyone with these lessons?”

Dorothea sits back on her hands. “Of course not, don’t be silly. It’s the middle of the day, no one’s around to hear us anyway.”

“Still…”

“Don’t be shy.” Dorothea grins and nudges her with her knee. “You’re doing so well. Let’s keep going.”

Is it her imagination, or does Ingrid blush at that? 

They settle into position again. Dorothea picks a new scale exercise, one with counting, and Ingrid catches on quickly. She resumes her gentle rubbing of Ingrid’s back, each stroke longer and slower than the last. Ingrid lolls her head back ever so slightly.

After a few repetitions, Ingrid loses steam: phrases fizzling out at the end, the highest notes of the pattern starting to squeak a bit.

Dorothea leans closer, tucking Ingrid’s hair out of the way. “What did I say about holding back?” she teases. “I’ve heard you on the battlefield, miss. I want to hear you _really_ sing.”

“Ng ha-ahhh,” Ingrid says in the middle of count-singing. 

She straightens her posture—with some help from Dorothea’s hands at her back—and starts the pattern again one note higher. More breath this time, and so more volume; Ingrid is so good at following instructions. Dorothea tells her this, reaching around to massage Ingrid’s legs. The leggings are so soft and leave very little to the imagination. She wants to duck her fingers under the waistband so badly—but no, too disruptive that way. 

“One, two, one, three- _eeh,_ ” Ingrid sings. 

“Very good,” murmurs Dorothea. She continues petting Ingrid’s thighs, coaxing them apart, and Ingrid complies so nicely, perhaps unconsciously, opening her knees to shoulder width. 

“One, four—ohh.”

Her lips graze Ingrid’s throat. “That’s it, just like that.”

The dam has broken, but Dorothea does her best to keep it from becoming a deluge. Keeps her touches slow and soothing, leaves soft kisses between each note. The vibration of Ingrid’s singing floats through her, feels so good against Dorothea’s mouth. 

“Eight, seven, eight, six…” Ingrid comes down the scale now, and so too does Dorothea’s hand go down, down between the warm embrace of Ingrid’s inner thighs. She brushes her fingers toward the center, drags her knuckles slowly up and down, feels her own blood rushing in response...

Ingrid gasps, chokes on a note, and her legs tense up. Dorothea lifts her hand away. “Should we stop?”

Her head shakes. “No—I, uh, I’m fine.”

“Good.” Dorothea smiles against Ingrid’s hair. “You’re so _good._ ”

She hears Ingrid’s breath flutter as she whispers, “Good…” 

“Mm. I have an idea, okay?” 

Dorothea pulls away and rolls over so her feet hang off the bed. “I’ll sing something, and you match it. Sound good?”

Ingrid nods. 

Dorothea sings a simple four-note melody, draws her eyes noticeably over Ingrid’s chest as Ingrid imitates the song. There’s a blush spreading all down her face and neck now.

“Good,” Dorothea says, smiling. She looks down at Ingrid’s leg and trails her hand along the side as she sings another melody. She sees a tremor flit down to Ingrid’s toes, but still Ingrid matches her without wavering. 

She shimmies to the floor, runs the same hand over Ingrid’s knee before sinking in front of her. Looks up at Ingrid’s confused face as she brings her mouth to the inside of her knee and hums another melody against her. It takes a moment for Ingrid to catch up; her eyelids flutter and she misses the last note. 

“Almost,” Dorothea murmurs into the fabric. She hums it again, open-mouthed, further down her thigh. She can’t help breathing deeply; with how tightly the pants cling to Ingrid’s skin, they’ve already absorbed her warmth, her smell. 

Ingrid’s eyes are fully closed now, but she sings it right this time. 

“That’s it. You sing so well.” Dorothea uses her other hand to grip the muscles of Ingrid’s opposite calf for balance. Goddess, these legs...what would they feel like over her shoulders, squeezing either side of her head? She shuts her own eyes for a moment before remembering she’s supposed to be singing.

Everything feels so _good,_ her face pressed to Ingrid’s thigh, all that adrenaline flowing through her, and without thinking Dorothea hums a longer, more difficult phrase, the last note held out at the end in accidental harmony with Ingrid’s accompanying moan. As Ingrid tries to match it, Dorothea mouths hot, breathy kisses to her inner thigh, inching forward with each one. Ingrid whimpers and falls back, has to catch herself on her hands. But true to form, she sits up and repeats the melody until she gets it right. 

“Mmm, lovely.” Another slow kiss. “You have such a pretty voice.” She drags her lips over the fleshy part of Ingrid’s upper thigh. “And you match me so well.”

“I—” Ingrid’s chest is heaving. “ _Uhhhh._ ” 

Now that Ingrid is sitting forward enough for Dorothea to reach, she plants her face fully between her legs, kisses her right over the heat there, humming one long note that Ingrid doesn’t even try to hit.

Ingrid’s head falls back, and she gasps. “Goddess, Dorothea…”

“Sing for me, sweet Ingrid.” Dorothea slides her left hand under to squeeze that gorgeous ass, holding it for dear life. Fuck, it’s even firmer and fuller than she imagined—thank all the saints for Ingrid’s lifelong riding habits. 

A hand curls into Dorothea’s hair as Ingrid finds her balance. “Hnnh, oh...wh-what should I sing?” 

“Anything,” Dorothea replies. “I wanna hear you sing for me.”

She licks a stripe up over the swelling bump of her clit, reveling in the little taste she can glean through the cotton on her tongue. There are faint spots of dampness, from her saliva and from Ingrid within. 

As if to comply, Ingrid lets out a high, broken moan, a siren call sweeter than any sound Dorothea’s ever heard. It’s so much, she has to spread her knees apart on the carpet. To lift up her dress and palm at herself in time with Ingrid’s heavy breathing. 

Dorothea’s pushed so close to Ingrid, she can feel her pulse through the pants, alternating sucking and humming around that nub of pleasure. She kisses back down to where her hole must be, almost sopping and musky with sweat and that singular scent of Ingrid. She listens for when Ingrid’s noises are the loudest, when she pulls on Dorothea’s hair, and moans harder there into the skin.

The leggings are criminally thin, which means Ingrid might not be wearing underwear beneath them, and oh, but if that doesn’t make Dorothea wetter at the thought. Her fingers stroke herself faster, and she’s nearly at climax before sense returns: she doesn’t want this to end so soon, not without seeing more, tasting more—they haven’t even _kissed_ properly for pity’s sake. 

And so she pulls away, reluctantly, to the absolutely ravishing sight of Ingrid falling apart in front of her. Her flush is a richer pink now, almost as lush as the lips she bites down on. Her forehead glistens, green eyes gone dark as they stare at the wall behind her, coming hazily into focus as she realizes Dorothea’s stopped. 

Dorothea is breathing hard. She licks her lips and smiles when Ingrid tracks the motion. “Well,” she says, sitting back on her heels. “It’s been a while, and singing seems to be a struggle now. Shall we be done for the day?”

Ingrid blinks. “What?”

She giggles. “I’m kidding, darling. Pull me up?”

Dazed, Ingrid stretches out a hand and lifts her to her feet. Immediately Dorothea straddles her on the bed and claims her mouth in a deep kiss. They both moan into it, and Dorothea’s turns into a laugh.

“Oh my Ingrid, what will I do with you?” Dorothea says into her lips, along her jawline. The answer is easy: she wants to kiss like this forever, with Ingrid’s breath hot on her face, moving against Ingrid’s lap.

“Thea…” Ingrid’s eyes close again, and Dorothea brushes soft kisses on each of them. She runs her fingers through the short hair, pale gold like a sunlit meadow. Ingrid brings her arms around Dorothea’s waist and kisses her neck. She stares hungrily at Dorothea’s chest, and so Dorothea takes one of Ingrid’s hands and clamps it on one of her half-exposed breasts. Fuck, it feels so good to be touched, finally.

This seems to cause a spurt of confidence in Ingrid—the roles are reversed now, and she roves her hands all over Dorothea, yanks at the front of the dress. 

Dorothea’s in full agreement. “Let’s get this off, shall we?”

She rises up on her knees and pulls it off over her head, grateful that she’s wearing a cute matching pair of lacy red undergarments. 

And very gratified by the way Ingrid stares, so _adorably shy,_ but wanting. 

“Dorothea.” It comes out hardly a breath. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Kiss me,” demands Dorothea. So Ingrid does. With their lips still slotted together, Dorothea loosens the belt around Ingrid’s tunic, slowly lifting it up so she can explore her chest. Instead of a brassiere, Ingrid wears a camisole through which Dorothea cups her pert breasts, rubbing a thumb over her nipples. 

It’s not long until Ingrid pulls the thing off herself. So Dorothea moves to her pants, working open the two-button fastening.

“Is this okay?” Dorothea asks.

Ingrid nods rapidly. “Y-yes.”

“Can you sing for me again?” 

Her only response is a whimper. Dorothea shifts until she’s only over one of Ingrid’s legs. She sticks two fingers in her mouth, laving her tongue over them so they’re thoroughly wet. 

Ingrid whines as she tugs the buttons open—no underwear in sight, she was right—and strokes her through the tangle of hair. But she needs a better angle. 

“Up on your knees for me?” 

She lets go to allow Ingrid to shuffle backward onto the bed on her knees. Dorothea nudges them open to return her hand down Ingrid’s pants.

With her other hand, she tilts up Ingrid’s chin to kiss her. “Your sounds are so musical,” she says. “Can I touch you inside? Hear how you sing when my fingers work you open?”

“Mmm,” Ingrid moans. “Hah...please.”

Dorothea watches her face as she carefully inserts a finger (she hardly needed the saliva, Ingrid’s already so wet), studies the scrunch of her eyebrows, how her mouth falls open with high-pitched gasps when she moves it in and out, strokes her inside. 

Ingrid starts moving her hips, just a subtle back and forth, adjusting to the feel of her, and so Dorothea adds a second finger, if only to hear the long whine she lets out in response. 

“That’s right, I want to hear you.” She tightens her legs around Ingrid’s thigh and grinds down on it. Kisses the side of Ingrid’s face, her neck, wherever she can reach. 

“Who knew your voice would have such power over me, hmm?” Dorothea whispers through kisses at her ear. 

Ingrid shivers at that, all down her whole body. She clenches around Dorothea’s scissoring fingers, and once again Dorothea brings her own hand to her underwear, ducking inside to stroke herself in tandem, still pressed to Ingrid’s trembling leg.

Both of them are gasping each breath now. Ingrid’s eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth making the sweetest noises at Dorothea’s movements, when she adds her thumb to circle her clit. She’s determined to see Ingrid’s peak through, stares at that beautiful face wracked with pleasure. It takes some time and some patience, but it’s beyond worth it hearing her sounds get louder, higher-pitched, and soon Dorothea’s close herself, lost in the way Ingrid sings through her own orgasm, until Dorothea’s coming too. 

Panting, Ingrid sags on top of Dorothea’s chest. “Oh... _wow._ ” 

Dorothea breathes out an incredulous laugh, slowly pulling out her fingers and wiping both hands on her discarded dress. “That was...excellent, Ingrid. See, don’t you feel more relaxed?”

There’s a snort from where Ingrid’s face lies against her collarbone. “I suppose so.”

“Great! Then we’ll do this again, same time next week.” She smiles down at Ingrid, then dons her teacher voice. “Don’t forget to drink lots of water. I need that throat of yours to be nice and wet.”

“ _Dorothea,_ ” Ingrid groans. 

“What? It’s true.” 

Ingrid nuzzles against her more snugly, and Dorothea leans down to kiss her forehead. “I hope you’re not planning to take on any other students.”

“Saints, no! You’re my one and only.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it already.” 

And for the first time, she feels Ingrid truly, completely relax.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I was *this close* to calling this one "Use Your Diaphragm" but I refrained, you're all welcome.  
> Sadly none of my voice lessons ever went like this, but it was fun to put my limited vocal knowledge to good use. 
> 
> (Miss Arnault....do u have any lesson slots available....I am in need of instruction)
> 
> Tweet me [@imachillydeer](https://twitter.com/imachillydeer)


End file.
